


cry like a ghost

by pasiphae



Category: Electronic Dance Music RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Angst, Body Horror, Character Turned Into a Ghost, M/M, and dillon does the wrong choices, and turns into a ghost, au where porter can't be a dj but can be a medium, everyone gets their moment of light, it's all jokes and laughs at the beginning but there will be pain
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-05
Updated: 2016-10-20
Packaged: 2018-08-19 17:16:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8218699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pasiphae/pseuds/pasiphae
Summary: sad sad man deserves to live. sick boy agrees. fate doesn't.





	1. cry like a rainstorm

In his dreams, there was light.

Colorful, blinding light everywhere. Welcoming light. Warm light with open arms that would hold him tightly, grasp around his small frame, not letting go until every single dark, colorless centimeter that was there in the beginning was covered in constant changing, bright color. A multicolor ocean.

He sees himself in third person, not recognizes the curve line on his mouth. Not recognizes the bubbly sound that escapes from his not chapped lips. If it wasn't for the distinct messy speck of hair, he would be so sure it wasn't him.

He sees himself floating, slowly allowing the thundering waves to make him fall into the cheerful abysm. It was overwhelming, such marvelous, touching view. It was gorgeous. 

And it suffocated him. Something about the image being so, so wrong. Something about his careless attitude was wrong. Something about the happiness, something about the color. About the vivid portrait.

Another small residue of laughter could be heard distantly.

Wrong, wrong, _wrong_.

The thought attaches to him so much that he doesn't notice when the contrast of his surroundings begins to fade. The aching ineffable feeling forces him to close both of his eyes, to avoid himself to keep watching the scene. The mood turns opaque. He doesn't sees, doesn't bothers to (even if he consciously was being aware of what was it), when his different self finally opens his eyes and fiercely grips his neck, and opens his mouth in an useless attempt to breath or scream and it's only embraced by color and color and color and everything around him begins to blink too fast.

It's too fast. It's too much. He doesn't notice when everything is again consumed in darkness. When the whole overjoyed trama of the dream changes.

He hears voices at the distance. A strange anthem of intelligible whispers.

He is drowning.

And somehow, in a very alarming way, that's the first thing he sees right in his dream. The only thing he could have said that was completely correct. It's something he's used to.

The black dissipates with an unnatural abrupt sound. He opens his eyes again. And then red is the only thing visible. The whispers turn into a hammering, buzzing static sound.

It's blood. The red is blood.

When he wakes up, he's surprised there's none out of his nose.

 

 

His eyes are opened and the view it's something he already knows pretty well, so there's not any kind of disappointed feeling. The walls are stunningly white, except for a few brown marks on the edges. His sheets are the same. The floor is some kind of light brown, and it's full of empty water bottles and a few books he never finished reading. He can't even recall why he bought them in first place. He has some plants on the borders of the only covered window. He remembers why he bought those! When he saw them at the store he thought they'll maybe look good. Add something to the forced minimalist style of his apartment.

The plants are dry and dead.

It's boring. It's dull. But it's how things are supposed to be.

There's some light infiltrating through the window. It's bright. But it's cold.

And he's happy things are the way they should be. He is. He is.

He checks on the hour on his phone and notices it's really early. He's even mad at waking up at such time. There's a slightly painful empty feeling on his stomach, loudly agonizing for food in what could be growling. He thinks of standing up. He has the image of him doing so, going outside even, and doing something productive and eating and petting a few dogs. Instead, he sighs, buries himself under the pile of soft covers again, and tries to sleep. There's something else inside his body. A stronger and way uglier feeling on his chest. Something that sleeping should have erased already, at least calm it.

Guess he has to try again.

He can always eat tomorrow.

 

 

By five in the afternoon hunger is too strong. He goes and checks his fridge only to find a half empty box of milk, and something that could once be tomatoes. He doesn't remember the last time he bought groceries. He sighs tiredly, going back and searching any jacket on his bedroom. Time to go outside. He can't remember the last time he did that either.

 

 

The walk back home it's extremely tiring. His legs are short and out of condition and he doesn't remember to have bought rocks but that's the only thing the bags on his hands seem to have.

He could buy a car. But it'll only make things worse.

He passes unnoticed through the occasional piles of bodies that walk besides him on the sidewalk. The weather is dry and cold and he can't help to notice people are, too. In the way they groan instead of apologizing when passing and hitting him with no care, in the way impatient children noisily cried at parents who faked deafness around them, in the way couples held hands but kept an inexpressive face, drained of any emotion. The way everybody seemed to ignore the blinking lights of the police vehicles obstructing the streets and the lady sobbing besides them.

It's not his problem. He shouldn't care.

Still, he stares for a time.

A lot of people of the closest sidewalk began gathering around the scene. Blurring shadows and curious heads. The woman keeps crying but is annoyingly ignored, only a cop faking attention and care, wanting to shut her mouth as soon as possible for them to keep going with their job.

He tries to take a step towards the scene just to be abruptly reminded of why it was so dangerous.

The clouds over his head, a minute before just being lazily drifted with the breeze, run over the pale sun and cover it in (watching the scene with the mind of child), a hug. His hair moves in their same direction as them.

There light is more noticeable now.

So many light.

Red light. Blue light. Repeat.

Someone calls his name. But when he looks back there's nobody there.

He keeps walking. The way back home it's full of silence.

 

 

''Isn't this another one of those things that happened to you when you were like, nine years old?''

The voice in his cellphone is twitching and cutting, and Porter silently curses at the harsh thunderstorm outside, noisy and powerful and cold, for that. The water drops hit so hard against the window that he wouldn't be surprised if they got to break it. He's safe at the moment though, warm and cozy under a too familiar blanket, eyes closed and the phone lazily on his hand.

''Porter?'' says the voice again, thick British accent making it sound different from usual. He smiles.

''No, I...don't think it's the same.''

''Huh...'' there's a brief comfortable silence between both man, wind still roaring outside furiously. There's a thunder. A glitch on the cellphone. Porter is about to change the subject (he never liked to talk about the past, it never lead to anything good) when the voice of Matan Zohar does before him.

''By the way...'' he begins, the sound of a TV show now following him in the other line. There's a lot of laughter. ''You can't just... go outside like that, and you know it. Call Nick to go with you or something.''

''What? Just how old you think I am?''

''Like, twelve apparently.''

''I am offended, Mr. Zohar.'' He says, following the game and laughing, and noticing how the sound feels unnatural on his throat.

''Whatever. Just go back to the hospital and I'm taking the first flight to America to disconnect you by myself.'' Porter gasps loudly, faking indignation, and somewhere in Britain, a small man smiles and rolls his eyes just by thinking of his expression. ''However,'' Mat continues, his voice obviously dropping the playful tone, ''I'm serious. I don't want to hear Mark's voice again all worried because his stupid old brother did whatever dumb shit he felt like doing. You have to be careful. We care for you.''

Porter has... the brief idea they do. He remembers the advice, the worried tone. He remembers the yelling, the relieved sighs, the fake smiles. The ''it'll be okay!'' s. He remembers that time Mat was talking about too. There was a lot of crying. And a lot of sleepy looks from his parents, whom stood beside him until he'll finally, woke up. Sometimes it was Nick and not his mom. One day, it was a very tired and worried looking Mat.

He hated every single memory.

''Shit, I know—''

''Then show it.''

Thunder.

Sighs.

The sudden sound of plates falling.

''Fucking cat... I need to go, talk later...'' Mat hisses, and before Porter can say anything else, he hangs.

Even the rain feels lighter after that. Quieter.

Just what exactly is he supposed to do now?

The morning feeling comes back again, indescribable pulsing cruelness contracting his chest, fluttering around and making itself a cold hole to stay in his stomach.

He feels like vomiting.

His eyes ache, and when his vision begins to turn slightly blurry he smiles at the window in front of him, at the storm. 

He blinks before his eyes can continue to water.

He's happy things are the way they should be. Fast and dull and _safe_. He is. He is.

 

 

He doesn't remember have falling asleep but when he wakes up the next morning, too early again, it's obvious he did at some point.

His neck cracks while he's stretching, and the routine that happened yesterday when he woke up feels so cliché already he has the urgent need of changing it somehow before going back to sleep.

There's something, too, with the urgency. It passes unnoticed but it's there, in the back of his head. It feels like some kind of insistent barking, unnatural and warning. It tells him there's something off. It's practically yelling at him.

_Don't leave the room! Stay here! Stay! Stay! Stay!_

He thinks it's a side effect of whatever the yesterday feeling is called. So he does his best at ignoring it, humming some tune Mat sent him a few weeks ago and nibbling his finger. He goes to the kitchen and---

Stops short. Steps back.

And stares.

Is still a bit dark outside, a radiant blue in the sky growing brighter with the minutes. There's a pale, dim light going through the curtains of the window in the living room, and it's enough to remark his factions. The sharp nose, the opened white lips, the closed eyes. The dark, curled fringe over his nose. He was...

_He was really, really pretty_.

Nonetheless, the fact was the last thing that went through Porter's mind. He rubbed his eyes a few times before the whole weight of what was actually, right in that exact moment, happening fell over his limp shoulders.

What is he, a man he has never seen in the past, a total strange, doing in his house?


	2. cry like a children

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> beta'd by hellalujah  
> hi hi tysm ; ; <3

Porter doesn't know how much time he spends staring at the sleeping figure, doesn’t notice the lazy pass of minutes. But when he finally convinces himself to move again - stepping back just slightly, covering his mouth with his hand - there are full soft rays of sunshine coming through the window. Shining on a pale, unfamiliar face.  
  
_You must remain calm_ , he thinks. _Stay coherent. Be logical, Porter._  
  
There could be infinite reasons for the presence of his unexpected visitor. From a drunken mix up of apartments to an embarrassingly failed attempt at theft. But there isn’t a need to jump to conclusions, no need to overreact.  
  
He doesn't notice his mouth is hanging open until it starts to go dry.  
  
Porter thinks again. He could be original. Cool. Wait for the man to wake up and ask for answers in an elegant way, solve any misunderstanding, maybe get breakfast together and then say goodbye. And in the future, he thinks, when they accidentally meet again at the supermarket or some place, reminisce about that funny time where accidents happened but all was forgiven. Because Porter is a good person. He wants to believe he is.  
  
When the laughter between the two men in his fantasy dissolves, the stranger is already waking up. He's softly groaning, he's clutching at his head and, and...  
  
And Porter wants to run away.  
  
''What the...'' the man begins, voice thick and hoarse with sleep, and stops as soon as his eyes set on Porter, eyes opening wide and mouth shut tight with horror. Porter tries, he tries to force himself closer or to say anything to end the nonsense of the situation and the sick emptiness in his stomach, get things done and go back to his bed or die or whatever the severity of the situation calls for. He needs to know who this man is, needs to bring back the feeling of safety he has in his apartment. But suddenly the room is filled with screeching, horrible, loud, inhuman and sharp, filled with something like agony, and it takes a moment to realize that it's not a cat, but the man.  
  
If that's what he really is.  
  
He presses the palms of his hands over his ears, and it doesn’t do much to help with the sound but somehow it feels better with the pressure on his head. Of course he starts screaming too, more out of frustration than fear and he swears to God everything would have been better and faster if it was the case of just a really bad robber but the option is already dismiss---  
  
A lamp hits his forearm.  
  
''Ouch?" he says, more questioning than pained, and before he can touch where he was hit he has to duck before a jar hits him too. The jar flies over his head, mockingly saying bye until it hits the floor and breaks into a hundred pieces.  
  
_Do something! Do something too! Do it, do it!_  
  
He picks up a pillow off of the couch and throws it at the man, does his best with limp arms but the fluffy lump just falls right in front of his feet and it's so ridiculous he really, really hopes the next hit goes to his head and kills him. It's effective, anyways, the screaming finally ceasing with such a show of weakness.The stranger throws a clock this time. It doesn't even land near Porter.  
  
''Who are you?!'' he asks Porter, who is now sitting uncomfortably on the floor. There's not a single object close anymore to throw but the entire sofa, and it's such a relief. Porter looks up, tired, and he has such a bad feeling because why would a stranger ask so fiercely about his identity? Why is he acting as if Porter, the legal owner of the apartment, was the one who broke into his house at night to wake up the next morning and destroy half of the living room?  
  
''What are you doing in my house?!'' he barks, eyes dark with poisonous anger, frightening enough that Porter’s heart pounds. There's another long silence before Porter can at least articulate an actual word instead of babbling non-existent ones, and what comes out is an small ''hey'' right before the stranger asks the same again. That's when it hits.  
  
_Say what now._  
  
''What?'' Porter finally says, face scrunched up with frustration and confusion. ''This is, uh, my house.''  
  
Silence.  
  
''What?'' he says.  
  
''What?''  
  
''But why would I...'' the man begins, trailing off at the end, mixing words with whines and groans and face softening with worry. Porter tries to stand up. His look turns harsh again, so he stops moving. ''Why would I be here if this isn't _my_ house?''  
  
''You don't even know what your place looks like?''  
  
He looks around again for a second, stares at the broken jar, the dust, the boring colors and the dead plants, and stays quiet, but recognizes Porter is right. This isn’t his house. Or he hopes it's not, because he surely wouldn't like to live there.  
  
''We didn't... you know...'' he keeps going, now crying and dropping himself in the couch again. He looks exhausted; miserable and sick enough for Porter to feel bad just by looking at him.  
  
The question wasn't something expected, and it's hard for him to find words that don’t make him look like an idiot once he understands what the stranger means.  
  
''Ah! No, no you were just... there. This morning. I don't even know you. Not like I wouldn't, but I don't know you and it's not like that...'' _Idiot!_  
  
''I'm... I'm so sorry, man. Last thing I remember I was going to this... party?'' he says, vexed, running his hands through dirty locks of hair and groaning.  
  
_There's something off here_ , Porter thinks. _Something, something..._  
  
_What, exactly?_  
  
Is it the pained expression? The constant head clutching? The pale skin?  
  
''I... I don't remember.''  
  
Whatever it is, whatever he’s supposed to notice is knocking incessantly on the inside of his head, pulsing and screaming, _demanding_ to be noticed like some sort of silent alarm. It’sa realization, deep inside him, as if he already knows what it is but still couldn't find it in the man right in front of him.  
  
And it was immensely annoying.  
  
''Where's my cellphone? I must have one. Everyone… everyone does.''  
  
_Is this guy really not even remembering if he has a cellphone? What kind of fucking joke is-_  
  
_Oh._  
  
It's not the soft tremble, nor the growing panic. Not the pale skin. Not the memory loss. Porter wishes it was. Porter keeps wishing it was _everything_ but what was actually happening. A joke, he wants it to be a joke. He stays silent for a moment, waiting for Mat to come out of nowhere and laugh at his probably pathetic, terrified face, being followed by an entire MTV pranks show crew. Yeah. They'll show him the hidden cameras, the amazing special effects, and everything they worked so hard on to make it look as if the legs of the man right in front of him are _**phasing**_ through the sofa.  
  
He waits. Waits a little longer.  
  
''Was I here last night? Was Anton there? Where was I? Where, where, where, where...''  
  
The stranger is pacing now, walking in circles and legs going through every piece of furniture and it's so sickening to look at because he's not even noticing, the man isn’t noticing that he's doing it and things are happening so so fast now, Porter’s heart is pounding in his chest, hands clenched hard to his sides. He’s bent double, forehead pressed to the floor. It's cold.  
  
''Man I swear I'm going to kill him if he was there and I'm just so sorry - hey?''  
  
_Everything was good. He never complained. He was ecstatic yesterday. Everything was good. And if he could at least get a hint of what he did wrong he would try to fix it. But not like this, not this, not again after so much time._  
  
''Are you okay?''  
  
Porter vomits. Some of his hair gets caught in it and it's so disgusting his stomach swirls again. He hears cursing.  
  
\---  
  
The first time it happened was a long while ago. Maybe too long ago, because then Porter was also too young for everything. For arcades, for reading without asking new meanings, to listen to rap music uncensored like his older brother. For understanding.  
  
Kids are incredibly naive to death.  
  
But he remembers the cold room and the black clothes, and the sad expression on his mother’s face. How people he never saw before that event tried to smile softly at him and tell him he was being so, so strong.  
  
_Strong for what? Strong why? Strong how?_  
  
He could only answer with what his mother told him while helping him with his small suit: ''Grandma is just moving. She’s leaving to a better place, don't worry!''  
  
His aunt had to go outside for a smoke when he told her the same. He asked her if she was like a fire dragon for the smoke coming out of her mouth. She smiled at him, dropped the cigarette immediately, and put a finger over her lips. Their talks were always a secret from mom and dad.  
  
''Grandma is not coming back.'' she whispered in his ear. ''Grandma died, Porter.''  
  
''What does that mean?''  
  
''It means she's not breathing anymore. She won't be here with us anymore. It happens to everyone. We're burying her tomorrow.''  
  
''Grandma is turning into a tree?!''  
  
''If she's lucky.''  
  
''She doesn't seems to be enjoying her tree party...''  
  
She didn't bother to ask what that was supposed to mean, just took out another cigarette from her purse and walked away from him.  
  
A young Porter needed a plan to help his nana have the best Tree Party! He was happy, giggling to himself with the thought of getting 'grandma' flavored apples. He might as well ask her in the party what kind of tree she was turning into.  
  
Maybe he should get her food?  
  
In the corner, she was sitting on her old, red couch. There was soft, playful music playing now, the party finally getting started, and Porter knew she was smiling because she loved this song. She stared at Porter with shining eyes, a smile, and a crooked laugh he knew maybe too well.  
  
''I brought you cake, nana!'' he said, proud of himself, with a wide smile and an obvious lack of a front teeth. He showed her the dull vanilla cake they were serving, dumbly placed in a plastic plate in a way only a kid could have done. She said nothing in gratitude. Instead, she began chanting, clapping both of her hands with the rhythm, the sound of curious whispers and heavy steps getting closer being overshadowed.  
  
_''On the farm, ev'ry friday! On the farm, it's rabbit pie day!''_  
  
Porter felt ashamed about the cake mess in his hands. It was so horrible! He showed such a thing to nana?! There's no way she could ever enjoy a cake like that. He needed to be more serious in helping. He was going to need to get another one.  
  
_''So ev'ry friday, that ever comes along, I get up early, and sing this little song...''_  
  
He turned around, not paying much attention until bumping into someone--- his dad. His dad, who looked more serious than usually, mouth tight and fists hiding on his pockets. Porter yelped. How long had it been since everyone started to look at him?  
  
''Porter,'' his dad hissed, taking the cake from him. ''Who’s the cake for?''  
  
''For grandma!'' he answered, and maybe it was too loud, because as he said so everyone began to whisper and whimper again, and his mom ran outside the house crying.  
  
_Uh oh._  
  
Now, his dad wasn't a bad person. Just your average dad. He was even cool sometimes, playful and loving. But parents can commit mistakes. So when he grabbed Porter's wrist forcefully, ignoring his cries, and shoved him right in front of a large wooden box, all Porter could do was shake with fear because _why_ was his dad hurting him so much?  
  
''Porter. Dad wants you to open the coffin and tell me what's inside.''  
  
Coffin? Was that the name of the box?  
  
Porter saw it when he arrived. It was hard not to when it was right in the middle of the room. It shined, had golden decorations embedded, and had a cut on the middle. Such a weird box for a present. It must be a good one, just the box was very expensive looking.  
  
Porter’s shaky hands brushed the cold, smooth surface.  
  
_‘’Run, rabbit. Run, rabbit. Run, run, run!’’_  
  
‘’Nana?’’ he asked, voice hoarse, and looked back over his shoulder. She was still there, bright looking and singing and shrugging giggly at him from her couch. But she was also inside the box, pale, expressionless, _asleep_.  
  
Everyone turned their backs to the confused cries and screams of Porter Robinson.  
  
\---  
  
That wasn’t the last time, oh no. It took a while for him to notice, but they were everywhere. Abandoned buildings, train tracks, bridges, streets, sometimes even in school bathrooms. It took a long while for his grandmother to disappear, only when he convinced himself and told her ‘she was nothing but a bad dream’.  
  
She looked sad that day.  
  
But what other reason could there be for him to be able to see such an _unexisting_ thing like a ghost?  
  
\---  
  
For some death was a natural thing. It means whatever you want it to mean, a teacher told him once. It could be beauty, it could be safety, it could be pain.  
  
For Porter though, death was nothing but a cruel pain in the ass.  
  
He sits up again, pushing his damp hair to his side. The man is still looking at him, lip trembling and eyes glossy.  
  
The youthful sound of children laughing and a cold, winter breeze reaches him from outside.  
  
‘’Help me,’’ the man says.  
  
Porter smiles weakly. He’s so tired. He stands up, finally, and the man sits down on the couch, inverting places, because his legs feel like jelly.  
  
‘’What’s your name?’’ Porter asks him while getting closer, stepping over the puddle of vomit, kicking the pillow he threw minutes ago.  
  
‘’Dillon.’’  
  
‘’Well, Dillon…’’ Porter kneels down until he’s facing him. Dillon. It’s a weird name. It fits him.  
  
He wastes no time on finding words and instead he just shoves his hand into Dillon’s chest, phasing right through.  
  
His eyes dilate the same moment Porter’s look down to the floor. He starts humming the song Mat sent him a while ago, focuses on that instead of harsh pounding on his chest.  
  
_So, so tired._  
  
‘’I’m Porter. I’m sorry for your loss.’’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> grandma's sick ass beats: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SXmk8dbFv_o


End file.
